I Even Funnier

by James Patterson

She’s in the hospital.

  Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center in New York City. She’s getting her third round of chemotherapy.

  This is why she was “too busy” to come to school in the morning.

  It’s also why Gaynor didn’t want us dropping by his house to thank his mom for treating us to the movies. She probably wasn’t there. Or, if she was, she might’ve been feeling pretty queasy from all her cancer treatments.

  As I’m heading out of school, Uncle Frankie pulls up in his van and tells me he’s going to drive Gaynor into the city to see his mom.

  “You knew about this all along?” I ask.

  “No, kiddo. I only heard about it the other day. Some of Mrs. Gaynor’s pals were at the counter, talking about how sad it was to see somebody so young get so sick.”

  “Oh. So that’s what you meant when you told Joey how sorry you were about his bad news.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And then you told Mr. McCarthy what was going on?”

  Uncle Frankie nods. “Your vice principal may look like a sourpuss, but he’s really a cream puff. We can’t have Joey living all by himself in an empty apartment while his mom’s in the hospital. So if she gives her permission, Joey’s gonna be staying with me for a while. I want you to move in, too, while he’s there. It’ll make things a lot easier for Joey. I’ve talked to your aunt about it already.”

  My eyes practically pop out of my skull. What a day. All my prayers are being answered! I just wish some of Gaynors’s were, too.

  “It’ll only be a temporary situation,” says Uncle Frankie. “But I figure the three of us can deal with this easier if we’re all together. We can also get you ready for those regionals up in Boston. Joey can be your second.”

  “Huh?”

  “You know, like in boxing. Joey will be your corner man. And like they say in the Miss America pageant, ‘should you for any reason be unable to fulfill your duties,’ maybe Joey could take your place onstage.”

  We both think about that for a minute.

  “Bad idea?” says Uncle Frankie.

  “Terrible.”

  We both start laughing, which makes me feel better, just like it always does.

  I’m thinking I should go visit Mrs. Gaynor. Tell her a few jokes.

  After all, laughter is the best medicine. And it won’t make you sick to your stomach, like chemotherapy does—unless Vincent O’Neil is the one telling the jokes.

  Chapter 26

  TRUE CONFESSIONS

  That night, as we’re helping Uncle Frankie lock up the diner, Gaynor has a confession to make.

  “Mr. Frankie, sir?”

  “Yes, Joey?”

  “I need to tell you something.”

  “I’m listening, my son.” (I think Uncle Frankie’s heard a priest say that to him a few times.)

  “Well, you know that stuff about me stealing junk out of lockers?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s true. I did it.”

  “I know. Mr. McCarthy showed me the video from the school’s surveillance cameras.”

  “It’s how come I had the money to treat everybody to the movies.”

  “I see.”

  “I had my reasons for doing it, sir.…”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, my mom wasn’t home. She was in the hospital. And my lame-o dad is down in Florida acting like he doesn’t even have a son or a sick wife. I mean, uh, ex-wife. And we don’t have any other family living here in Long Beach, and, well, I was hungry. I needed money for dinner.”

  “Just for the record, Joey, you ever get in that type of situation again, you can always eat here. For free. We’ll work something out. Dishwashing or whatever.”

  “Thank you, sir. But, well, the McRib sandwich was back at McDonald’s, and, well, you don’t have a McRib on your menu.…”

  “Whoa. Hang on. You didn’t need to steal so much loot for one lousy McRib. You didn’t have to buy everybody’s movie tickets the other night. Why’d you burglarize so many lockers?”

  “I dunno. I guess I was mad. At my mom for getting sick. At me for not being able to do anything to help her. At the world for being so unfair. I mean, why did my mom have to be the one to get cancer?”

  “I see. Why not someone else’s mom?”

  Gaynor thinks about what he just said. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “I know.”

  “I guess I’m a pretty lousy kid, huh?”

  “Nah, Joey,” says Uncle Frankie, following us out of the diner and locking the door. “You’re just a kid dealing with some pretty grown-up stuff. But always remember what Eleanor Roosevelt used to say.”

  “Who?”

  (Gaynor’s not really one for history. Maybe I can tutor him next.)

  “She was FDR’s wife,” says Uncle Frankie.

  “Oh. Cool. So who’s FDR?”

  “That’s not important. Not now, anyway. What is important is a little bit of advice Mrs. Roosevelt passed out: ‘A stumbling block to the pessimist is a stepping-stone to the optimist.’ So we learn from this, we turn it into a stepping-stone, and we move forward.”

  “Okay. Thanks. But, uh, where are we going?”

  “Right now, home. You two need to hit the hay. There’s school tomorrow.”

  “Yeah,” says Gaynor, sounding relieved. “Thanks for that.”

  “Thank me after you take that math test in first period.”

  “What?”

  Frankie shrugs. “Hey, you missed math today. Mr. McCarthy gave me a heads-up. You also have ELA homework.”

  “Okay.” Gaynor doesn’t look happy about it, but my guess is he’ll do his homework.

  “So what’s ELA?” Frankie asks.

  “What they used to call English,” I say.

  “So why’d they change it to ELA?”

  “Because… I guess it would be plain English to call it English. And if there’s one thing we learn in ELA… it’s how not to speak plain English.”

  Frankie chuckles, and even Gaynor smiles. Not knowing the answer to a question is always a great opportunity to make a joke.

  Gaynor and I share the spare bedroom in Uncle Frankie’s tiny apartment, which is in a five-story walk-up just down the block from the diner.

  Fortunately for me, he lives on the first floor.

  We’re both pretty beat, so the room gets quiet really fast. You can’t hear anything except the ocean crashing against the shore a block away. I’m drifting off to sleep when Gaynor whispers, “Thanks for everything, Jamie.”

  “Well,” I say, “I didn’t really do anything except have a cool uncle. I hope I turn out to be as good a guy as Frankie when I grow up.”

  “You’re already a great friend.”

  “I’m not sure I’m all that great, but I am a friend with wheels. And don’t you forget it.”

  Gaynor laughs. “I won’t.”

  “Good. Because if you ever need me, I’ll be there faster than anybody else.”

  Chapter 27

  RIDE ’EM, COWBOY!

  Saturday morning—after we make our beds, clean our room, and watch a couple of cartoons (hey, it’s research for my act)—Uncle Frankie announces it’s time for Mustang Wrangling.

  Gaynor and I have no idea what he’s talking about. Maybe there’s a rodeo in town. Maybe a pack of wild horses escaped from the Bronx Zoo and is stampeding across the Brooklyn Bridge toward Long Beach.

  “We need to go to the diner, boys,” Uncle Frankie explains. “It’s time to broaden your horizons.”

  “You’re gonna make us eat horse meat?” says Gaynor.

  “No. I’m talking about, you know, guy stuff. Learning how to handle a muscle car, like my classic 1967 Ford Mustang convertible!”

  The three of us troop down the block to the diner, where Uncle Frankie’s cherry-red ride sits in the parking lot, gleaming in the sun. A pair of fuzzy dice dangle from the rearview mirror. His vanity plates read STAAANG, which I’m guessing is slang for Mustang.

>   “Joey,” says Uncle Frankie, “climb in the passenger seat.”

  “Cool!” Gaynor hops in.

  “Okay, Jamie. You too.”

  “Uh, I’ll wait till you take Joey for a ride. I don’t think I can get into the backseat.”

  The convertible is kind of tiny. You have to fold down the front seats to climb into the back. I’m not so good at climbing.

  “You’re not sitting in the backseat, Jamie,” says Uncle Frankie.

  “Huh?”

  “I want you behind the wheel, kiddo. After all, one day this car is going to be yours.”

  “What?”

  “I’m gonna give you my Mustang.”

  “Why? I won’t ever be able to drive it.”

  “Really? Why not?”

  “Um, correct me if I’m wrong, Uncle Frankie, but don’t drivers need to work—oh, I don’t know—the gas and brake pedals? Don’t you need to use your feet?”

  “Not necessarily, kiddo. See, I’ve been talking to my friend Ralph. You know Ralph, right? From the garage over on East Market Street.”

  “Sure. The guy with the black fingernails who likes my Tim Allen jokes.”

  “That’s the guy. And for the record, that black gunk is grease, not nail polish. Anyway, me and Ralph, we’ve been talking. Turns out it’s easy-peasy for him to install what they call hand controls. You operate the gas and the brakes with handles, which Ralph attaches to the steering column. They’re like the handlebar gizmos on a bike or motorcycle.”

  “I don’t need my legs?”

  “Nope. You just need to haul yourself into the car, toss your chair in the backseat, and hit the highway.”

  Okay. This is kind of choking me up.

  Unless you’ve spent some time in a wheelchair, you have no idea what Uncle Frankie is offering me. Freedom. Independence. Mobility.

  With a car, I can hit the open road. I can go to any college I want, not just the ones near the city bus stops. I can go see things I’d started thinking I might never see.

  I angle my chair up beside the driver’s door and transfer myself into the driver’s seat.

  And I can imagine everything.

  Buzzing down the highway in my STAAANG. The wind whipping through my hair. Cute girls waving at me from their convertibles as I whizz past. Bugs splattering against my teeth because I’m smiling so much.

  “Yep. Sally’s a mighty fine gal,” says Uncle Frankie.

  “Sally?” I say.

  “That’s her name. You can change it when the Mustang’s yours—which she will be on your sixteenth birthday.”

  “No joke?”

  “Nope. Jokes are your department.”

  Have I mentioned how much I love my uncle Frankie?

  Yeah. I thought so. Because I really, really do.

  Chapter 28

  GETTING HOUSE-TRAINED

  Early Sunday morning, Uncle Frankie takes Gaynor and me into the kitchen (at his apartment, not the diner) with a sack of groceries.

  We’ve got eggs, milk, bacon, sausages, pancake mix, syrup, orange juice—everything to make a major-league breakfast.

  And a mess.

  “I thought we’d whip up some French toast,” says Uncle Frankie.

  “Should I plug in the toaster?” asks Gaynor.

  “No, Joey. You should pay attention.”

  And Frankie shows us how to crack an egg—with one hand.

  “So your other hand is always free to loop-the-loop. See, if you know how to cook your own food, you’ll be able to take care of yourselves, no matter what. Even if you’re on your own.”

  I sometimes forget that Uncle Frankie used to be married.

  I met his wife, Aunt Rose, a long time ago—back when I was like three and my mom and dad and I came to Long Beach for summer vacation. I remember she wasn’t feeling very well that summer. We came back to Long Beach in early winter for Aunt Rose’s funeral.

  Uncle Frankie has been alone ever since.

  Well, not entirely alone. He has a ton of friends at the diner. But that’s not the same thing.

  “Okay,” says Uncle Frankie, “challah bread makes the best French toast. We dip it in this batter. Make sure you coat both sides. But don’t let it get so soggy the bread starts falling apart. Then we pop it in a hot buttered skillet. Brown each side. Voilà.”

  Gaynor and I each take turns making our own French toast.

  Then we sit down and smother it with maple syrup. Frankie has cooked up some omelets, pancakes, and bacon for us, too.

  We all pig out.

  When breakfast is done, Uncle Frankie dabs at his lips with a paper towel, which he tells us is what guys sometimes use for napkins when nobody’s looking.

  “But don’t eat over the sink too much,” he advises. “It’s not classy.”

  Gaynor and I both nod. We’re taking mental notes.

  “And now, gentlemen, we learn the most important lesson of all. We learn how to clean up our own messes.”

  “Um, I’ve got homework,” I say.

  “Yeah,” says Gaynor. “Me too.”

  “I know,” says Uncle Frankie. “And this is it. Who wants to wash and who wants to dry?”

  Chapter 29

  HOW TO DO NOTHING, AND DO IT WELL

  Sunday afternoon, Uncle Frankie comes into the living room with a stack of DVDs.

  “Okay, guys, enough with the domestic engineering. We need to prep Jamie for Boston.”

  “You read my mind!” I say.

  “These are some sitcoms I bought at a yard sale. I thought they might help. Like this Seinfeld show. What makes it so funny?”

  And I have another “aha!” moment.

  “The same thing you told me to do!” I say. “It pulls jokes from real life!”

  Frankie and Gaynor sit down on the couch while I slip the Seinfeld Season 3 disc into the DVD player.

  “The creators of Seinfeld always said it was a show about nothing. But it’s really a behind-the-scenes look at how to develop material for your stand-up act. And it’s not about jokes. It’s about everyday life. You know, what you’d consider nothing special at all, like making a mess cooking French toast. You take some of the ordinary stuff that happens and poke fun at it,” I start.

  Up comes the DVD menu. I pick one of my favorite episodes: “The Alternate Side.”

  “Okay, this is a bit from Seinfeld’s act.”

  The show opens with Jerry Seinfeld holding a microphone in a bright white spotlight in front of a red curtain at a comedy club. He’s doing a stand-up routine about car alarms.

  “It seems to me,” he says, “that the way they designed the car alarm is so the car will behave as if it was a nervous, hysterical person. Anyone goes near it, anyone disturbs it, it’s aaa-waa-waa-waa.” He starts waving his arms around like a lunatic.

  “Funny,” says Uncle Frankie.

  “But watch!” I say. “See, this next scene is supposed to be from Jerry’s real life.”

  Jerry and his friend George enter Jerry’s apartment. Jerry can’t believe that his car was just stolen.

  “It was parked right outside,” he says.

  “Was the alarm on?” asks George.

  “See?” I say, pushing the Pause button. “That’s where he got the idea. Something bad happened in his life and he worked it into his act.”

  “Um, does that mean you’re gonna talk about me again?” asks Gaynor. “Because I’ve been going through a whole bunch of bad stuff lately.”

  “I dunno. Maybe.” I think about it for a second and get an idea. “I might mention that I have a friend at school who got caught stealing stuff out of lockers. Poor kid. He still doesn’t know what to do with all those posters of the guys in One Direction.”

  Uncle Frankie laughs. “Bingo! That’s the stuff, kiddo!”

  “Do it, Jamie,” says Gaynor. “And use my name! Please?”

  When I won the New York State contest, I told a joke or two about Gaynor. A lot of girls at school thought that was cool and start
ed going crazy all over him.

  I think he’s hoping for a repeat in Boston.

  Chapter 30

  A BATTLE OF WITS?

  Back at school on Monday, I’m feeling pretty good.

  Life keeps handing me new material. For instance, after thinking about Gaynor and the lockers, I decide to roll up and down the halls during class changes and check a few out. See what people really have plastered on their walls.

  It’s like some kids are building little houses inside their tiny metal storage units. This one girl, Ashleigh—I kid you not—has a polka-dot chandelier hanging off her coat hook, zebra-print wallpaper on the side walls, and a lime-green shag carpet on the floor. She’d probably put in a microwave and a TV, but her locker doesn’t have electricity. Or cable.

  I’m about to whip out my notepad when I sense somebody standing behind me.

  “Hey, Jamie! Wocka-wocka!”

  Vincent O’Neil is in the hall, making like Fozzie Bear from the Muppets.

  “Quick question, Jamester: Why did the Cyclops close his school?”

  So much for coming up with new material. It’s time for jokes that are older than dirt on the moon.

  “Because he only had one pupil,” I say with a sigh.

  “Oh, you heard that one before?”

  “Yeah. See, a while back, I more or less memorized a bunch of joke books, but now…”

  “So where did the pencil go on vacation?”

  “Pennsylvania.”

  Vincent puts his hands on his hips. Wrinkles his nose at me. “Oh, you think you’re so funny. Jumping on my punch lines.”

  “I’m not jumping on anything,” I say. “The doctors tell me it’s medically impossible.”

  “What? Was that supposed to be funny? Do you see me laughing? I am so not laughing.”

  “No, Vincent. I’m just saying that maybe you ought to—”

  “Don’t sit there giving me advice, Grimm. I’m Vincent O’Neil, and I am the real deal! I’m ten billion times funnier than you’ll ever be.”